


Crossed Wires

by marie_deneuve



Category: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005), Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - All Media Types
Genre: Dr. Margot Elizabeth Weber, F/M, Miscommunication, Pre-Relationship, aka Eliza, charlie is basically the factory's HR department, charlie is more mature than both of them combined, eliza is a model employee until you piss her off, wonka is a bad boss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26981431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marie_deneuve/pseuds/marie_deneuve
Summary: Eliza pours everything she has into her work, desperate for an approving word from her employer. Unfortunately, the taste of said approval is bittersweet.In which Wonka sucks at giving compliments.
Relationships: Willy Wonka/Original Character(s), Willy Wonka/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	1. Initializing

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hey, guys! This is my first multi-chapter venture for Wonka, and I’m so excited to share it here as well! I couldn't be happier with the reception Eliza has gotten so far in the fandom. She’s very special to me, and I am forever grateful to everyone who has supported me and given me a platform to share her!
> 
> It’s pre-relationship because I’m a slow burn gal, as long as you ignore the fact that I have already uploaded smut between them *cough cough*. Shippiness in the final chapter if you squint.

Eliza is yanked from a dead sleep by a long, harsh buzz.

Slate blue eyes wrenching themselves open, she finds that she is not curled up in her bed - rather, she is slumped over her desk. Her cheek is pressed against a set of blueprints for a giant electric mixer, and an empty teacup rests by her left hand.

Mind ever working faster than her body, she is stationary as she analyzes, piecing together her predicament. _I...fell asleep while working. Next time...coffee instead of tea. Also...I was awakened. What is the source?_

A voice, affectedly jovial despite being garbled by static, pours in through a speaker on the wall, suddenly filling the room. "Hey, sleepyhead! Rise and shine!"

_Source located. A voice...my boss' voice. It's Mr. Wonka. Does that mean...?_

With Herculean effort, Eliza lifts her head. Light does not filter through the cracks in the shades, quelling her initial fear that she has slept through her alarm and is late for work. The only light is the dim glow of her desk lamp, a small model of the moon with a bulb inside, which she made herself years ago. 

Alphabet soup sloshes languidly around in her head, only one question swimming to the forefront. "What time is it?" she grumbles quietly. Briefly pawing at a vague glasses-shaped blob on the desk, she picks up what are indeed her glasses. Putting them on and blinking, the shapes and colors around her morph into her bedroom.

"Hello?" Getting no response, Wonka's disembodied voice tries again, more deliberately. "Eliza? Wakey-wakey!"

Eliza stands groggily. Padding across the carpet, she consults the LED clock on her nightstand and squints in confusion. 

Five fifty-seven AM.

If memory serves, she made herself a cup of chamomile tea at approximately two thirty AM in a desperate bid to calm her nerves. _Factor in time to drink it, plus an estimate of how long I stayed awake subsequently..._

Less than three hours of sleep again.

The plans to begin construction on a new electric mixer are expected to move forward sometime this week. The blueprints must be flawless - anything less is unacceptable. 

Eliza has _apparently_ spent the entire night prior ascertaining that they are, in fact, flawless, but she still is unable to silence that nagging voice in her head. The voice that insists it is only a matter of time before she messes up. Before she gets something wrong. Before the precarious tower upon which she built Wonka's trust and respect topples.

Her boss turns his head and addresses someone in the room with him. "Can she hear me?" he asks them impatiently, albeit muffled. "She should be able to hear me. Maybe if I speak louder -"

"I can hear you, Mr. Wonka," she practically snaps, cursing herself immediately after. It is so unlike her to allow something as trivial as sleep deprivation to evoke an emotional response.

The chocolatier does not pick up on her aggravation - or, more than likely, he picks up on it and ignores it. "Oh, there you are!" Without missing a beat, he is forcing congeniality again. "I tried calling your BlackBerry, but you didn't answer. It's a good thing the PA system we had installed in your apartment is working properly, huh?"

Grabbing said BlackBerry off the nightstand, she attempts to turn it on, before setting it back down in frustration. Dead. She's not surprised she didn't notice. Certainly intelligent life will be discovered in another galaxy before she receives a phone call outside of work.

Eliza is not in the mood for formalities at six in the morning. Knowing Wonka, she suspects he isn't either. Not with all the coffee in the world. "Did you need something?" _At this ungodly hour..._

"I'm glad you asked! I need you to come in early today," he instructs, barely allowing her time to finish her question. "We're dealing with a teeny-tiny emergency over here, and I have an important mission for you."

"An emergency?" She tilts her head, despite Wonka being unable to see her. "At six in the morning?" Factory operations for the day have only just begun. What could have possibly gone so wrong that backup is necessary already?

"Yes. I'm told there's just been an avalanche on Fudge Mountain."

Eliza's eyes widen marginally. That is definitely a first, and a horrific one at that.

Wonka is quick to reassure her. "Now, not to worry, everyone's all right!" He continues, "Unfortunately, a few Oompa-Loompas are stranded at the top with all the Oompa-Loompa-sized climbing gear," he explains grimly. "I need you to take my harness and get them down right away! They're accustomed to tropical climates, you see, they're not equipped to be up there for very long."

The sleep-induced haze in Eliza's mind clears more and more with each word. Assessing all possible solutions, she can't help but wonder if calling her is the best way to remedy the situation. The factory is across town, and while she has scaled Fudge Mountain in the past, Wonka is a much stronger climber than she is. "Mr. Wonka, wouldn't you be better suited for -"

"I thought you might say something like that," he interrupts. "And you're right! Normally, I would rush over there myself, but I'm handling something even more urgent."

_More urgent...than an avalanche?_ Still listening, Eliza hastily crosses over to her dresser and begins rummaging around for a change of clothes. Best to avoid a skirt if she's climbing - leggings and her Oxford hoodie will have to do today. Luckily, no one at the factory is fussy about attire anyway (particularly not Wonka, the king of impractical fashion choices).

"The sugar sand on Dessert Island started shifting overnight - some sugar that wasn't infused with the anti-solvent must have gotten mixed in somehow, and it's causing parts of the beach to dissolve," he rationalizes aloud.

Eliza does some internal rationalizing of her own as she changes out of her pajamas. _We will need to take samples of the existing sand and create a formula to determine how much anti-solvent to reintroduce to the beach. What do I need to bring with me today? My blueprints...the materials for Charlie's lessons...breakfast? No. No time. Coffee will suffice._

"Anyway, the sudden movement puts the molten lava cake volcano at high risk for erupting! So I'm heading over there to start evacuating Oompa-Loompas and draining that boiling hot chocolate right away!" Wonka rambles, oblivious to Eliza's scrambling on the other end, both outward and inward. "Two natural disasters at the same time! Isn't that wild?" His question is punctuated with a short, controlled guffaw.

"When it rains, it pours," Eliza agrees. Now fully dressed, she crosses over to her vanity mirror and debates whether to bother brushing her hair, eventually satisfied simply to pull it up into a ponytail. "I will be on my way at once."

"No need! I sent the great glass elevator to pick you up a while ago. It should be there in..." He trails off briefly. "I'd say about five minutes."

Her blood runs cold. "...Five minutes?"

"Well, you would've had more advance notice if you had answered your phone," he quips, a minuscule crack appearing in his cheerful facade.

Eliza is well aware of the dreadful temper lurking behind Wonka's feigned smile. He is subject to the same tempestuous mood swings as so many creative geniuses of his caliber are. She is thankful to have never been on the receiving end of such a temper.

Yet, just as he can often be disagreeable, he has also proven that he can be exceptionally kind. Especially toward his young heir. 

Wonka and Charlie Bucket seem to have an understanding which transcends any ordinary "tradesman and apprentice" relationship. The factory is a corporeal manifestation of that shared vibrancy and imaginative brilliance. Two areas where Eliza, as a woman of unyielding logic and only the most calculated of risks, is painfully conscious of her shortcomings. 

After a moment of careful consideration, she simply murmurs to her reflection, "Of course. Excuse my lapse in professionalism."

"...It doesn't matter now," he responds, an odd tinge in his voice. She would call it guilt, if she didn’t know better. "I'm just glad I was able to reach you in time."

"Indeed. Five minutes," she repeats, ruling out the possibility of making coffee before she leaves. "I will be ready."

Wonka offers some curt manner of farewell that Eliza does not quite register, but responds to regardless. The PA clicks, indicating that she is now alone with her thoughts.

The face in the mirror peers back at her, eyes as infuriatingly placid and steely as ever. If eyes are the window to the soul, as she so often hears, her windows surely must be bolted shut. No one is coming in, and no one is getting out. That is the way it has always been, and presumably, the way it always will be.


	2. Processing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie needs a vacation, or at least one well-adjusted role model.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2!!! One left to go, hopefully with a shorter wait period in between lmao. Thanks to everyone who left me such lovely messages about this story and encouraged me to continue it. I hope you all enjoy!

For most kids like Charlie Bucket, people like Willy Wonka only come around once in a lifetime. Sometimes passing like a ship in the night, then disappearing for good. Sometimes crashing a jet-propelled elevator through the roof of your home, insulting your family, dragging you along with them to reconcile with their estranged father, then moving you and said family into their massive factory to live forever.

Most likely not the second one, though. Metaphor is not Charlie's strong suit.

Regardless, it's his uncanny luck that brings yet another ship to port in his once simple life. That ship contains one Dr. Margot Elizabeth Weber, his austere yet kindly teacher.

Where Wonka and Charlie excel in the theoretical and abstract, she often flounders, much more comfortable in the physical and concrete. After all, concrete is solid and unyielding, unbending once it has formed a pattern.

That is, until Charlie spotted the first break.

He was waiting by the door of his family's little house in the Chocolate Room at eight fifty-nine that morning. Dr. Weber arrived at nine o'clock—not a minute earlier or later—and crisply knocked on the door three times. He opened it for her, and that was when he noticed the inconsistency. A tiny distortion, as though he were seeing the same pattern through the rippling water of the Everlasting Gobstopper pool.

She was dressed casually, something that he had never seen before. Her normally immaculate hair was pulled haphazardly into a messy ponytail and dark, heavy circles adorned her eyes.

"Dr. Weber?" he blurted out, voice laced with concern. More tactfully, he added, "Er, good morning!"

The young woman blinked slowly at him, eyelids clearly fighting to remain open. "Charlie, this is the four hundred seventy-eighth day that I have worked here. You should no longer be surprised to find me at your door."

"...Right, sorry. How are you?" Unwilling to correct her on the source of his shock, he gathered up his supplies and joined her outside—in the Chocolate Room, that is. The emerald fields of swudge and the warmth from the heat lamps meant to mimic sunlight often make it easy to forget that they are, in fact, still indoors.

Dr. Weber seemingly pondered his question as they started for their usual spot—a secluded knoll near the base of the chocolate waterfall. "I am very well," she finally said, spectacularly unconvincing.

From then on, the morning proceeded as usual. Dr. Weber's zeal for mathematical equilibrium overshadowed her apparent exhaustion and moodiness. And Charlie became too preoccupied with remembering the steps of the quadratic formula to worry over her.

That had been a little over a week ago.

Charlie knows he is perceptive, has known it all his life. No matter how his parents and late grandparents tried to shield him from the full extent of their poverty before meeting Wonka, he was always acutely aware of their hardships. That is why he began shining shoes in his spare time, when his family likely thought he had been off playing with friends. Because he has always been able to tell these things.

Dr. Weber likely thinks that she does an adequate job of hiding how much she fancies Wonka. Luckily for her, Wonka is twice as ignorant as she is obvious. Nearly constantly, Charlie staves off his own secondhand embarrassment as Dr. Weber runs herself ragged tending to Wonka's every beck and call, stands far closer than necessary, and openly stares at the chocolatier whenever his back is turned. Meanwhile, Wonka carries on with his day, blissfully unaware.

Yet, ever since that day Charlie saw the first crack, Dr. Weber's pattern has been completely broken. She appears in the same room with him only when it is mandatory. When that happens, she keeps several yards between them and refuses to spare him a glance.

It doesn't take Charlie long to put the puzzle pieces together.

"What did Mr. Wonka do to you?" he asks her point-blank one day after cornering her in the Coffee Cream Room.

She looks taken aback, having been absorbed in grading assignments and guzzling coffee (her third cup, if the two empty ones next to her are anything to go by). She peers up at him over the frames of her glasses. "Hm?"

"You've been awfully cross with him for a few days now," he clarifies, moving to sit across from her cautiously. Appealing to Dr. Weber's pathos is tricky business. He needs to apply just the right amount of pressure for her to feel comfortable speaking freely—too much or too little, and his window slams shut.

Dr. Weber focuses back on her work. Wearing a thin veil of nonchalance, she asserts, "I am not sure what you are referring to. I have no complaints against him whatsoever."

"Then why have you been avoiding him recently?"

His teacher sighs in exasperation, and something in her eyes hardens. "Let him know that he needn't worry. My productivity has not been affected."

Charlie winces. He wonders what Wonka could have possibly said or done that would elicit such a strong reaction from someone as composed as Dr. Weber. "Oh, no, nothing like that!" He backpedals, thinking that he may be overplaying his hand here. "In fact, he only ever has good things to say about you! I was just...worried. That's all."

To his surprise, she sets down her pen. "I appreciate your concern, but I was sincere when I said I have no complaints." She frowns, lips pursed with guilt. "You see, when I presented Mr. Wonka with blueprints for his new mixer last week, he made a comment."

"He didn't like it?" Charlie asks incredulously.

"No, it's not that—he loved it. It's what he said to me after that." She seemingly braces herself before reciting, "' _Eliza, you are as reliable and efficient as a machine_ '."

The word "machine" drips with venom from her lips. If it weren't for her clear contempt for the word, Charlie might be at a loss for the source of her rancor.

Grand and impressive as machines can be, especially here in the factory, they are nothing more than a means to an end. An empty husk for man to impart his will upon. An object to be discarded once they have fulfilled their purpose. Cold and unfeeling.

The way Dr. Weber must now believe Wonka views her.

Charlie can sympathize with her plight. Those couple weeks after he first met Wonka, after his family had been harshly refused access to the factory, he had felt utterly betrayed. The sparkling image of his childhood hero, tarnished in the blink of an eye. Of course, bygones are bygones, and the two of them now have a much more organic relationship. Charlie would go so far as to say Wonka is like a second father to him (as much as the least paternal person on earth can be, that is).

Charlie knows good and well that his mentor is no smooth talker. There is no doubt in his mind that the chocolatier is capable of insulting Dr. Weber, whether intentional or not.

Dr. Weber's voice breaks him out of his reverie. "In any case," she says evenly, "I have come to realize that I overreacted."

"What do you mean?" Charlie tilts his head curiously.

"I am an employee here," she explains. "I complete tasks...I perform functions...and I leave." Straightening the papers in front of her, she gathers them into her tote bag. "But I became conceited. Clearly, I assigned myself undue importance—a mistake I shall not be repeating."

Charlie gapes at her from across the table, disheartened by the sincerity in her words. "That...that's not true! You are important here, Dr. Weber!" he insists. "And I know Mr. Wonka thinks so, too. Why don't you see for yourself?"

That earns him a skeptical look. "What are you suggesting? That I broach the subject with him myself?"

"Yes, exactly!"

"Neither I or Mr. Wonka have time to spare over such nonsense."

"You mean, your thoughts and feelings," Charlie surmises.

"Yes, as I said, nonsense." Slinging her bag over her shoulder and pounding back the rest of her coffee, she stands.

Charlie nods wryly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at her. Looking at Wonka and Dr. Weber on any given day is like looking at his own parents through a carnival funhouse mirror, but this is plain ridiculous. "You can't just let him walk all over you, Dr. Weber. He will, but only if you let him." He stands as well, only half as gracefully, as his adolescent body continues to adjust to suddenly being nearly six feet tall. "If you're uncomfortable, I'll say something for you."

Dr. Weber spins on her heel to face him, features hardened. "Charlie." She says his name gently, yet firmly, the way his mother used to when he misbehaved as a little boy. "Again, I appreciate your concern for me, but that is hardly necessary. As your teacher, it would be unseemly to involve you in my personal matters in such a way." She starts for the exit, discarding her empty cups on the way. "As it stands, I've already said too much."

Charlie trails her into the hallway. Time for one last Hail Mary. "Technically speaking, we're not in a lesson right now," he rationalizes aloud. "And I don't work for Mr. Wonka—well, not like you do, at least. So your record of conduct would be perfectly safe." In fact, Wonka doesn't even keep records of conduct. He doesn't generally do much hiring and firing.

Dr. Weber looks him over warily, carefully considering. Charlie squirms nervously as he feels himself being dissected under a microscope. Finally, she tells him, "You make an excellent sales pitch...but I'm not worth the fuss. I'll be taking my leave now; I have business at the university." Without leaving room for further debate, she turns and strides down the hall, noticeably hastier than usual.

Releasing a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, Charlie lopes back inside. He needs a shot of espresso, stat. And he would rather not look too deeply into that compulsive need to help every simultaneously ingenious and emotionally stunted adult he comes across just yet.

Maybe Dr. Weber is right that he shouldn't worry so much. After all, things have a mysterious way of ultimately working out around here.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave kudos, and tell me your thoughts in the comments below!
> 
> P.S. I get up to plenty more Wonka-related shenanigans on my tumblr! Follow me at https://fudgemallows.tumblr.com/


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